


The Peace Keeper

by kyloewok



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Charlie is a chef, Charlie is a selfish asshole, Children Suck, Choking, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Henry is obnoxious, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Quickie on an airplane, Quickies, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn to the smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: Charlie Barber was a consequent man. The type you would never picture yourself meeting... and living with. But alas, when intuition prices at your community college skyrocket and your forced to disregard school entirely, you move in with a dysfunctional, recently divorced man that loathes every crevice of L.A and only desires his directing agency in New York city.Things take a turn though. His pint up frustration pours out, and you end up becoming roommates with benefits.
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Reader
Kudos: 12





	The Peace Keeper

Charlie was a brute. His disposition was always mundane— almost as if he carried himself lethargically to protect all of the feelings he harbored. It was always off-putting, even now, even after a whole ten months of situating yourself in the spare room just across from his son Henry's bedroom, in his standard apartment in Las Angeles.

Meeting him was... rocky and unnerving at the start. Even just from the crinkled up, deliberately typed "Room for Rent" paper that was posted to a chipping lamppost in the courtyard of the community college you were attending at the time, you could discern his seriousness. It was written with pure earnest and complexity.

You mustered the courage to give the blotted phone number a call, anyway. You were in a fit of desperation, with the prices of intuition skyrocketing, and the money in your pockets plummeting. You needed to find a place to live, with your term nearing its end.

You remember that pang of rejection that rippled through you when you were greeted with a voicemail. The phone number called you back in the matter of hours though— and although you were not expecting the deep, baritone voice that emitted from the opposite end of the line, you were not opposed to it.

It was an interrogation. 

He had pried answers out of you, not by intentional force, but just by the mere dominance and stoicism of his tone. You discussed your situation blatantly, because he made it clear that he preferred you as an open book if you would be cozying up in his home.

You supplied him with the basics. Name, age, the college you were attending, and your major. You told him about your temporary job as a waitress at the Diner located only a couple of blocks away from his just as temporary apartment.

He was reluctant at first. Although he was in the middle-higher class range with his commutes as a theater director, the traveling between New York and L.A. drained his wallet of money, and he was in dire need of a roommate that could work something out with him in order to keep the bills in decent order. The last thing he needed were unpaid bills and debt, when he hasn't even finished wallowing in the dejection his ex-wife had discarded him in.

But after a nimble, casual meeting for brunch at a nearby café, his instinct demanded him to give you a shot. Maybe because you had a negotiable schedule and a fair enough salary to aid him in sustaining a couple of bills, maybe because you were a youthful-hipster that gave him a clear perception on the man he used to be before he reached his thirties, where life had only descended from the peak.

If he did like you, he was not keen on displaying it. At first, he merely acknowledged you, accept to discuss the prosperities of the apartment and the occasional, awkward instances in which he caught you sneaking out at night, or when you caught him sneaking a cigarette and a chilled Stella Artois on the balcony.

Things gradually began to merge together from there. You started talking, lounging with him on the balcony, and even eating your meals together, when both of you were available. A platonic bond molted you two together, and you finally felt comfortable in your own home.

It only festered and burned hotter from there, after an argument with Nicole blew him out of charitable waters. He opened up about everything, pouring out the confinement's of his splintered marriage, and the hardships of traversing from a stage-director in New York to a full-time father in Las Angeles. 

His honesty... and his anger... lead to dangerously lecherous things. Sometimes, you could still feel the way his hands felt caressing your body, and the way his lips felt attacking yours, that night. And all of the tough nights that followed.

That's all it was. His temporary release from the stress he harbored. A good fuck here, a good fuck there— and a good fuck just about anywhere.

Once he pounded enough of his anger out, he had been vitalized with enough tranquility to simply convey himself without blowing steam. The sex made up for his lack of social skills and inconsistency. Knowing he would be back from New York to fuck you into the mattress was a steel motivator throughout the day, a mantra that you recited in your mind. 

Things started to go back to normal when he was obligated to conduct two broadway shows at once. Both in New York, both warranted with high-expectancy by critics.

Ever since then, he has been distancing himself from anything and everything other than his work. He worked tiresome hours ensuring the play he was conducting would sail smoothly, barely acknowledging Henry on his weekends to spend with him, too engrossed with his job that was conveyed on the opposite side of the country. You could only distract Henry from his semi-absent father with legos and comic books for so long before he went blabbering to Nicole about how Charlie never spent any quality time with him.

He has already undergone the treatment of your cynical lectures on the issue. It seems that after the umpteenth time of telling him to adjust his schedule to make his time with Henry more convenient, he still refuses to shove his stubbornness aside and comply to your advice.

The scent of grizzling herbs, and a hint of spice, billowed through the ventilation system, wafting through the crack you had left in your door. You sniffle, scrunching your nose, finishing off the profound touches of the resume you were rendering a local Newspaper company. Charlie had suggested that you search for a better job. Although that wounded you just a tad, you were accustomed to his brutal honesty and potent opinions. He was right, though. You couldn't work at a diner forever.

Over the sizzling of a greased up pan and the fans boisterous whir, you could hear him talking in that firm, consequential tone on the phone, scampering around the kitchen and slamming cupboards.

You sigh, revising the resume and storing it in your drafts for safekeeping, ascending from your desk. You shuffle out of your bedroom, wafting a light haze of smoke out of your face as it emits from the searing frying pan on the stove. Charlie acknowledges you with a curt nod, sighing, compressing his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he stirs the simmering veggies around.

You frown, gingerly nudging him to the side, softly snatching the wooden spoon from his grasp. He eyes you in bewilderment, and you permit him with a soft smile, scooping the seasoned veggies around.

He flashes you a grateful look, giving your shoulder a brisk squeeze, slipping past you and raising his voice earnestly into the phone. Just as Charlie slipped past the balcony doors, Henry emerged from his bedroom with his little Lego spaceship that Charlie built with him a couple months back.

He mimicked rocket noises, sputtering them through puckered lips, sprinting around the apartment, swirling it around in the air. You chuckle, "Havin' fun, Hen?" You quip, peppering the vegetables with a speckle of herbs, laughing as Henry swivels around you and giggles.

"Kinda." He chirps back bleakly, shrugging, breathlessly plopping down in one of the chairs at the dinner table. "I wish dad would play with me, though."

You sigh solemnly, flashing him an apologetic look. The oven beeps exuberantly, and you slip on a mitt, pulling the tray of seasoned chicken out of the oven. You saunter over to the round table, splaying out a cloth, smiling contently at Henry as he watches you settle the tray of chicken down. You top it off with the sautéed veggies, dousing it in the homemade sauce Charlie had perfected.

"Can you get me some chocolate milk?" Henry asks, tilting his head, narrowing his honey-speckled, chocolate eyes, that matched his fathers identically.

Charlie peels the balcony door open, the frigid, winter air ricocheting through the apartment, prying a shudder out of you. He tucks his phone away, eyeing his son, features blank.

"Water." He corrects, muttering, staring Henry down. He brushes past you, "And you can pour your own drink, Henry. You're a big kid now."

He rummages through one of the cupboards, hauling down two wine glasses. "Want to split a bottle?" He asks you, and you nod, lowering yourself into your usual seat at the dinner table across from Charlie.

Henry grumbles at his dads previous remarks, rolling his eyes, begrudgingly rolling out of his seat. He drags his bare feet across the mosaic tiles as he rips the fridge open, standing on his tiptoes, bracing the filtered-water canister with both hands, using all of his strength to lug it over to the counter.

"I can't reach the cups." He glowers accusingly to his father.

Charlie sighs, wordlessly handing him one of his dishwasher-damaged, plastic Lego Ninja cups. He snatches it out of his hands, pouring it sloppily, spilling beadlets of cool water all over the floor and the counter.

"Henry." Charlie breathes.

"Sorry." Henry mumbles drably back, swinging the refrigerator door back open, shoving the water back inside.

This brawl had been going on ever since the divorce was finalized. The father-son relationship that originally wired Charlie and Henry together had grown tethered, and you could see as plain as day that it was taking a toll on them both. You were in no place to reprimand Charlie for his lack of parenting skills, but he needed it, and you were one of the only people that could try and do it successfully.

He clenches his jaw, using a blemished dish rag to soak up the droplets of water. Grumbling curses to himself. Henry waltzed back over to the table, plopping down, propping his elbow up and pouting. He continues to play with his spaceship, swinging his legs back and forth, humming.

"Do you need some help?" You call tenderly to Charlie, smirking when he sighs in defeat.

"No." He states, slinging the rag over the leaky faucet, that he has yet to tend to. 

He pops the cork of the bottle of wine, a loud pop resounding from the slick glass bottle, as he pours a decent amount into both pristine glasses. He takes a hefty sip of his own, trudging over to the table leisurely, situating himself in his creaky seat with a sigh. He slides your glass over to you, a tired, merely perceptible smirk tugging at his lips.

"Thanks for finishing off the food." He gruffs, eyes boring through the food, as he grabs at his fork and surveys the table that you and Henry had set with silverware only about twenty-minutes before.

"No problem." You chirp, taking a sip of your own ruby-red wine. Eyeing him from the brim of your glass, eyebrows raised.

Charlie dives in for the food first, just like he always did, scooping up a slab of chicken and veggies and plopping a chunk on his plate. He digs in, scarfing it down, chewing swiftly. Henry mimics his action, cramming his mouth full, grinning cheekily at his dad, hoping he would acknowledge his eagerness to fit in.

Instead, he was looking at you. Staring at you expectantly. Scrutinizing you, as you peered back at him, nibbling on your own food.

You smile coyly, slicing through a chunk of juicy chicken, bringing it to your mouth. "It's delicious." You compliment, and his gaze breaks free from yours, as he lets out an exhorted huff of amusement and smirks.

His eyes flicker to Henry, who is playing with his spaceship, now avoiding his food at any and all costs. "Henry. Eat your food." Charlie urges, voice firm and authoritative, as he jabs at his sons meat with his fork.

"I don't want to." He shrugs. 

"Henry." Charlie bites, trying to suppress his impatience. 

"I hate chicken." He defends, pretending to fly his spaceship around, making more frequency noises of a rocket with his lips.

"You had a bite earlier." You intervene by musing softly, "It was good, hm?"

Henry shrugs, but reluctantly places his lego-ship down, staring at you with wobbily puppy-dog eyes. "Yeah, I guess so." He admits through a grumble, scooping up his fork, forcefully stabbing a piece of chicken.

Charlie sighs in relief, his hazel eyes softening, as he gleams at you with a look that reads gratitude. You observe as he chugs the majority of his wine, cramming every ounce of food he can fit into his mouth.

Dinner ticked by tediously, as a suffocating silence swallowed you whole and left you sitting uncomfortably, sipping on your wine. Charlie already had two glasses, and two plates-full of food. You could presume he had been empty-stomached all day due to his remote work endeavors.

"Can I go play now?" Henry blurts, sauce staining his lips and fingertips.

Charlie takes a bite of chicken. "Wash your hands, and then you can play." He says, mouth full, a crumb toppling from his lips.

Henry springs up from his seat, pivoting to run towards his bedroom, when Charlie hollers, "Don't forget your plate."

Henry was already in the bathroom, scrubbing at his grimy hands. You scoop his plate up and stack it on top of your own, ascending from your seat, gesturing for Charlie's nearly empty plate. "Thanks," he husks, piling it with yours, using his knuckles to wipe his lips clean.

"Mhm." You chime, giving all of the plates a brash rinse, placing them in the sink. You would tend to the dishes later.

When you swivel back around, Charlie is already standing, towering over you with his formidable, clad build. He was staring down at you, his gaze intensifying with each second that passes where you both just... stand there. Basking in something warm that felt illicit.

He snaps out of his trance. Bringing up his thumb to wipe a dollop of sauce off of the corner of your mouth. Your tongue darts out to lap the sauce off of his fingers, eyes gleaming with mischievous, seductive intent, as he smirks wryly at you.

His faint, albeit humored smile, simmers to be a lingering smirk, as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and continues to eye you down with a suffocating intensity that sends you pivoting away from his stare of scrutiny.

You start to scrub the counters with a nearby rag, in an aimless attempt at avoiding Charlie and his unintentional stoicism at all costs.

That veiny bear-claw of his circles your wrist gingerly, emerging your hand from the counter. You swallow, craning your neck to meet his now softer gaze. A touch of a smirk still brushing his lips.

"I can take care of this," he insists, urging your hand away, snatching the rag from your grasp. "Just make sure Henry has his homework done."

You blink. Feeling an immense anger boil within, for his lack of maternity. "It's Sunday." You grit your teeth, narrowing your eyes.

He straightens his posture. "Oh." He blanks out, scratching the back of his tousled, wind-stricken black locks. "So it's done."

You sigh, snatching the rag back from him, belligerently scrubbing a piece of flaking, dried-up sauce that managed to escape the pot. "I've got this. Go talk to your son, Charlie. And please, try to be patient with him." 

Okay— It's not your place to bark commands to your roommate about his son. But when you were starting to feel like a nanny as opposed to the roommate you were originally snarfed out to be, there was clearly an issue in dire need of being addressed.

He gulps, supplying you with a swift nod, appearing caught off-guard by your brashness. You were the patient one in this household. The balance, if you will. 

Charlie was an asshole by nature, merged with his own selfishness, although still considerate and hospitable at times it boosts his chance at something grander in diplomat. His brooding features made his disposition more tolerable, though.

He begrudgingly saunters his way over to Henry's bedroom. Knocking vaguely with his knuckles, before inattentively pushing the door open. "Hey." You hear him greet his son, tone softer and pliant, before he quietly latches the door shut behind him.

You smirk, satisfied with yourself and your brief little scolding, as you continue to wipe the counters clean of any muck. Charlie was not the most methodical in the kitchen. The food was superb, but the mess was always disastrous.

***

Three hours have passed, since Charlie had dissipated through the threshold of Henry's bedroom. You had completed your rigorous course of cleaning nearly two hours ago, before you retreated for the evening, retiring to the living room. Not a peep had emerged from Henry's room in the span of those tedious hours you had spent snuggling up to read a good 'ol anthology novel on the new sectional you had recently invested in. 

Charlie's old couch was a renters— he never planned on spending the majority of his spare time here, in Las Angeles— and when you insisted on purchasing a brand new couch with your pint up money—that was running low— he accepted your offer with no complications.

When you first moved in, his apartment was bare, disregarding the mounted photos of Henry's doodles and a few faux plants. You utilized the space as your own, after Charlie made his lack of care on the apartments appearance blatant. Now, It was all... feminine, in a way, if an inanimate space could be deemed as such.

Rose scented candles molded by bee-wax loitered on the surface of every side-table, the wickers always gleaming amber on cold evenings, producing the welcoming smell of all things floral. Charlie's cook books, and your cliché romcoms were stacked meticulously on the coffee table. Canary-tainted fairy lights flickered and illuminated the space with a cozy golden glow, streaming from the sheer drapes that swathed the window.

You had replaced the synthetic plants with natural ones, that you made an attempt at watering daily. You refurbished thrifty articles from nearby, rundown shops, speckling the space with cute little nicknacks. Colorful, miscellaneous throw pillows decked the couch. Everything was fabricated by your design at this point, and Charlie had grown accustomed to the eye-sore you had made his apartment out to be. 

He did secretly like your artistic style. It was a reminder of simpler days. Days that were so foreign and rare to him now. Success could only convey you so far through the unhappiness.

The click of Henry's bedroom door opening disassociates you from the spot of your novel you had found yourself enraptured in. You peer up from the brim of your book, watching with a ripple in your brow, as Henry patters out of his room— in his one-size too large t-shirt, and his droopy-batman underwear.

"Hen?" You ask dubiously, glancing at the matte-black clock propped on the table just adjacent to the sectional. "Whatcha doin?"

"Peeing." He retorts, scampering into the bathroom, his bare feet making a sticky patter upon the tiles as he cracks the door shut.

You can hear the trickle of him peeing, and you grimace. "Don't forget to put the seat up." You sigh, suppressing a smile when he pauses, and slams the seat up, continuing where he had left off.

You roll off of the couch, plopping your feet down on the carpet, wiggling your toes into the rug and stretching your bleak muscles. "Where's your dad?" You holler softly, folding the corner of the page you had left off on, slipping your book on top of your pile of novels.

"My room." He shouts back.

You yawn, leisurely peeling yourself off of the couch. You carry yourself weakly to Henry's bedroom, gingerly easing the door open, peaking inside. You smile solemnly when you see Charlie fast asleep.

An old, withered copy of the children's classic, Stuart Little, was draped over his chest, that rose and fell gently with his hefty breaths. Mellow and calm. His hand was limply sprawled across the section he was reading. His other arm was tucked underneath his head. His legs that were still clad in dress pants were crossed. Leather shoes dangling off of the edge of the bed.

The floorboards creak as you tiptoe cautiously towards him. You lower yourself into the mattress heedfully, extending your arm to rest it on his forehead, smoothing out his slightly-disheveled, black locks. 

He looks... beautiful like this. Domestic in a way, with the book coiled tightly to his chest, and his small, lumbering snores toppling through his agape lips. With his dark brows pinched together, and his nose shifting with occasional hitches in his breaths.

He looks so tranquil and at peace, it almost unnerves you to wake him. "Charlie?" You whisper, continuing to stroke his hair out of his face, hoping you weren't crossing any boundaries by caressing him like this, when it's been so long since you had last touched him.

He stirs, nimbly prodding into your touch, cheek nestling deeper into Henry's pillow. "Hmph." He gruffs, not moving, nor opening his eyes. Your dreary smile deepens, as he absentmindedly welcomes your touch.

You skim your fingers soothingly through his hair. "Charlie." You muse softly, and this time he shifts, eyes fluttering open. He squints at you with groggy, swollen, sleep deprived eyes.

His eyes train wearily on yours, before he inhales sharply, and darts up from the bed. "Where's Henry?" He asks, voice hoarse and laced with exhaustion, as he ruffles with his hair and squints one eye.

"Peeing." You respond, eyeing him.

He shifts his attention to you attentively. "Did he put the seat up?"

You chuckle breathily. "Yep."

"Okay." He sighs, back colliding with the sheets, calloused fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Good."

You nod and hum benignly in agreement. You nibble on your lip, smoothing your hand over the crisp fabric garbing his muscular thigh. "You should get some rest." You urge, tone feather-light and gentle.

His head shifts on the pillow, raven, tousled hair framing the cushion. He drapes his forearm over his forehead, and observes you from the length of his nose.

"I promised Henry I would read him a whole chapter." He breathes, tightly screwing his eyes shut, shaking his head softly in protest.

"I'm sure he would understand..." You mumble, tilting your head, continuing to reassuringly run your hand up and down his brawny thigh.

"He's never been much of an understanding kid." He quips your name sleepily, chuckling lowly at himself, as you giggle in agreement.

"Dad?" Henry says, waltzing back into his room, climbing onto his bed.

"Hm?" Charlie turns his head to peer at his son, eyes puffy with fatigue.

"Can you get out of my bed now?" 

You had to stifle a laughter at his sons brashness, that was so similar to his fathers untamable brutality when it came to honesty. You ascend from the bed, making room for Charlie, as he grunts with a shallow smirk and rolls off of the bed. When he extends to his full height, he towers over you, bulky arm brushing yours when he trudges past you with a cumbersome stride.

He rounds the opposite side of the bed, where Henry was already curling up under his Lego-Ninjago sheets. He pecks his son amiably on the forehead, "Night, buddy." He breathes, earning him a small goodnight back from Henry. You smile and fold your arms across your chest, following Charlie as he saunters slothfully out of the room.

"What have you been doing?" He asks curiously, voice still husky and low.

"I did a bit of cleaning, and I started to read that book you brought me from the airport a couple weeks ago." You say meekly.

He stutters on his stride, clearing his throat. Pondering for a second. "Come." He beckons, as he walks lethargically to his bedroom, you trailing behind him.

Even though his bedroom was smaller than yours, it managed to appear massive, with the lack of decor and furniture. Other than a king-sized bed with freshly fitted sheets and one bedside table with a basic mosaic lamp and an alarm clock, it was empty.

He kicks off his shoes, grunting, as he rummaged through the closet. You swayed in the doorway with crossed arms, watching with your lips quirked up, as he fished something out.

Another book. A Shakespeare book. 

A classic copy of Macbeth.

He offers it to you nearly sheepishly, as you beam down at it with a glistening grin. "I know you love Shakespeare, so." He gruffs, shifting from foot to foot, as you flip through the pages.

"You remembered that?" You gleam, trying to suppress your grin that continues to spread like a wildfire across your face.

He nods. "You're... admiration for Shakespeare inspired me to venture into unfamiliar regions with my directing skills...." He starts reluctantly, as if he's ashamed. "I usually write my own plays, but I wanted to try something new..."

He trails off as he reaches into his tawny-leather bag that was wearing from the amounts of times he's traveled with it. He untucks a bulky, nearly overflowing folder, shoving it into your grasp briskly, with a sheepish smirk.

"Whats this?" You ask.

"Open it." His smile starts to grow, although he tries in spite of himself to suppress it.

You do— and your bombarded by an array of calculated research over Shakespeare, his life and writing style, detailed manuscripts and even unreleased articles from his writing journey. Highlighted in a bold neon, was the script for Macbeth, your favorite piece by Shakespeare.

"I'm directing it..." He mutters. "For you."

You hiccup on your own breath. "Charlie... I- Thank you." You squeal, instantly engulfing his torso with your arms, nuzzling into him for a grateful hug. 

He grunts at the impact, chuckling gruffly, rubbing your back tenderly. "Of course."

It was astonishing, and extremely out of character. You would have never expected an act so sentimental from Charlie, the heavily devoted and bittersweet director.

He holds you like this for a moment, as if your embrace was imperative. Swaying you lightly, rubbing your back, breathing into your scalp calmly. Completely pacified and content with just standing here and feeling the way you radiate gratitude into his skin.

"I haven't had enough time to start reading it yet." He admits into your hair, murmuring. "I won't be able to live with myself if I haven't read it at least six times by opening day."

You snort, peeling your head away from his chest, tipping your chin and resting it on his peck so you could peer up at him through your eyelashes.

He peers back down at you, expression blank. His hand slithers up your back, his other hand brushing a strand of hair out of your face, sending shudders up your spine.

Your heart gyrates with endearment when he heedfully commits to pecking you meaningfully on the forehead. It was like a wordless reminder of those nights. The way he treated you as a person worth more than just a deposit for his apartment.

"I know I've been busy. I haven't had time for Henry... or..." He clears his throat instead of continuing with his sentence. He gives the back of your neck a small knead, peering down at the book. 

"Could you help me?" He asks, although it's painstakingly clear he loathes the words that just spilled from his mouth. "I could use your commentary. You know way more about Shakespeare then I ever could."

You nod. "But we can save that for later. You're exhausted."

"I have to head back to New York early tomorrow morning. I need this tonight..." He objects, flashing you a pointed look, eyebrows raised earnestly.

"Oh." You blink. "Well, I have a better idea."

It took a lot of mustered courage to follow through with your suggestion... but Charlie seemed more than willing and comfortable with complying to your diversion.

Laying sandwiched beneath his sheets that reeked of delicious musk and fresh linen should've felt... wrong. His big arm draped over your waist, and his broad chest swelling into your back as you read him Macbeth in a candied, soft voice, should've felt wrong.

Instead, It felt right.

He grumbles into your shoulder, his lips puckering there, nose prodding into the blade. You crane your neck to glance at him, his face squished into your shoulder, one eye squinted as he tried to read from the book along with you.

"We can go to sleep." You whisper, moving to fold the book shut, only for his fingers to lace with yours from the top and forbid your movement.

Your heart stammers when his plump lips ghost your ear. "Come with me tomorrow." He murmurs, breaths torrid and warm, as they tickle your cheek.

You shiver, shimmying in his drowsy embrace, wriggling around to face him with knitted brows. "Really? To New York?" You chime giddily, smiling at him, as he gazed at you with his sleepy replication of longing. Stroking the apple of your cheek lazily with his thumb.

"Yes." He husks back curtly. He shifts a bit, flattening on his back, scrutinizing the ceiling. "Our flight leaves at seven."

You internally groan at the thought of waking up that early. "Will there be another ticket available?" You ask.

He smirks prudently, twisting his head to face you. "I already paid for an extra. I've been planning to bring you. I just haven't had time to talk to you..." He trails, eyes darting around your face. His thumb absentmindedly brushes your bottom lip. "Or see you like this, for so long."

You smile into the calloused pad of his thumb, pecking it gently, stroking his knuckles with your hand— that he managed to dwarf.

"I've always been rather patient..." You jeer, and he chuckles, a low rumble in his chest, as he nods in agreement.

"That's where we're different." He admits. You hum drearily in acknowledgment, your eyelids heaving with exhaustion, as you mewl and curl under the blankets.

He whispers your name. You hum groggily back. His warm fingers feather through your hair, another soft peck being applied to your forehead. "I'll wake you up tomorrow." He murmurs, the bed dipping and shifting on his side, as you nod.

The lamp flickers off, the dim glow that was originally illuminating his quaint bedroom, vanishing. Being replaced by the shadows of looming palm trees that sway beyond the window. The whir of the heater kicking on, and Charlie's hoarse, labored, slumbering breaths, filtering the air.

***

"Honey?" A hand shakes you vehemently. The scent of freshly ground coffee churns in your nostrils, your nose scrunching. "I made you coffee. It's time to get up."

One eye shoots open. Charlie hovers over you, with freshly-washed locks that drip pellets of cedar scented water into your face, dripping from the ends that had sustained dampness. His lips were pink and still swollen with sleep. Steam billowed from the matte coffee mug he held in his grasp.

"Thank you." You mumble sheepishly, sitting up begrudgingly, scooping the mug out of his hand. You take a sip, as he lugs his leather bag out of his closet, shoving it full of random clothing that suited his fancy.

"We need to leave for the airport in less than an hour." He breathes, grunting, as he unethically crams every article of clothing he can fit down into the bag. "I have to drop Henry off at Nicole's on the way."

You nearly choke on your coffee, gulping a mouthful down forcefully, blubbering at him with puffed out cheeks as it scorches your throat on the way down. "Why didn't you wake me up sooner?" You rasp, staggering from the bed, nearly toppling over your own feet.

He reaches out a hand, firmly clasping your bicep. "You looked so pretty sleeping in my bed..." He flatters, leveling his face with yours, kissing you meaningfully on the lips. "Now go get packed. And wake up Henry, please."

You roll your eyes, although your cheeks burned timidly, and a coy giggle escaped your throat as you scrambled to oblige to his requests.

***

"Ladies and Gentlemen, prepare for take off. We hope you enjoy your flight." A voice emanates cordially from the speakers overhead.

You harbor your breath in your lungs, chin craned towards the ceiling, eyes brashly skewered shut. Your digits were clammy with trepidation, turmoil bubbling in your gut. Your perspiration was shedding onto Charlie's palm, as your fingers roped with his, squeezing his hand belligerently tight.

"It'll be fine." He insists, slouching neutrally, calmly in his aisle seat. "I've done this so many times, It's second nature to me."

Your chin quivers, and you pop an eye open to glance out the window. The tarmac below the planes miniature wheels flies by agilely. You squeak, squirming in your seat, your face burrowing into Charlie's bicep.

The plane undergoes a brief string of turbulence as it takes off, only heightening your senses that were going haywire with apprehension at the moment. Charlie silently allowed you to cling onto him, giving your hand reassuring squeezes on the way up.

Your unease simmered out as the plane started to sail smoothly through the abyss of fluffy, flaky clouds. You continued to cling onto Charlie, though. Cheek smushed into his bicep, arms embracing his, legs tucked in your seat, a pout on your lips.

"Come on. Relax." He demands, an impatient coo. He strokes your hair, before his hand glides to your jaw, and he unlatches your face from his arm. Forcing you to look up at him. "Does somebody need help relaxing?"

Your wobbly pout leisurely morphs into a sinister grin. Your glossy puppy-dog eyes gleaming with lascivious intent.

"Hm." He smirks, gruffly tsking. "That's what I thought." He idly glances around the perimeter of the plane. "Come."

He unfastens his seatbelt, ascending from his seat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He nonchalantly struts down the aisle with the expectancy that you will follow. You gape at him in befuddlement for a moment, before stumbling to meet his demands.

He shucks a pair of velvet drapes out of his way, shuffling along the scuffed up, royal blue carpet. He eyes you smugly when his hand catches the knob of the unisex bathroom door. You smile sheepishly back, as he slips into the compact space, you following awkwardly behind.

He pounced on you before you could even register that the door wasn't fully latched. His hands were pawing at your hips, directing you to the portable sink plastered to the felt-linen walls.

He pivots you around sharply, your hands slamming into the basin to brace yourself. He fumbles with his belt, his bulge prodding into your ass, as he grinded into you, his hand engulfing your throat. You moan, as he wastes no time slipping his fingers down the front of your skirt. Prying apart your folds, running his fingers through your slit, rubbing at your clit. Your leg twitches. 

"Charlie..." You whisper, and he hushes you, kneading your clit precisely as you whimper and feel your wetness start to lap on your panties. 

He looms over your neck to peck at your cheek, before lowering to his knees. His fingers snake around your panties, pulling them down briskly, letting them drop defeatedly to your ankles. His hands cup your ass, kneading, pushing up the hem of your skirt.

His mouth lunges to your pussy from behind, licking and prodding at your entrance, lapping your wetness. He hums dauntingly in gratification with the obscene taste of you, his tongue plunging into you, coiling, devouring every drop you provide him.

Your ankles nearly snap as you choke on a moan, eyes flickering over your taut face of pleasure in the water-stained mirror. Your eyes screw shut, and you wail out in bliss, when his fingers massage your clit, and his tongue flicks in your core.

"I missed this pussy." Charlie growls into you, hands firmly guiding your hips back into his face, as he burrows himself deep within your bawdy wetness. You could hear the way his lips smacked, and his saliva lapped, as he went to town on your touch deprived cunt.

"Mmph." You whimper back, pushing into his face, legs trembling like a fawn taking its first steps with its toothpick like limbs.

His tongue maneuvers to your clit, switching places with his fingers, that now ease into you and instantly coat with your slick. His lips seal around your aching bud, suckling with determination, fingers thrusting and scissoring into you methodically.

"Fuck, Charlie... mm." You shudder, breath hiccuping, as a warmth plateaus in your core, and you start to moan uncontrollably. Clamping your teeth into your bottom lip to suppress your lewd whines of ecstasy.

"Are you gonna cum?" He growls, words muffled into your cunt, sending vibrations throughout your body. "Hm, pretty girl?"

"Y-yes." You blubber, quivering with need, as your peak starts to ascend salaciously.

His fingers escape your cunt, lips evading your clit. You whine in protest, his hands continuing to fondle at your hips to stabilize you, as he towers back to his full height. Looming over you, beaming at you with a diabolical smirk in the mirrors fogging reflection. His chin was glistening with your juices, as well as the tip of his aqualine nose.

One hand escapes your hip to slither up your back, sending warm shivers throughout your entire quaking body. It tangles with a cluster of your hair, wrenching your hair back. His lips ghost your ear.

"I want you to fucking scream for me." He purrs dauntingly, black eyes bolted straight to yours in the mirror, as you whimper and nod hastily in response.

His cock sheathes into you fast. Filling you up to the base, his dick balls-deep into your unsuspecting, stuffed cunt. You choked on your breath, as he just paused there, the red, aching muscle throbbing within your core. His tip touching places that seemed impossible to reach.

He started to thrust, pumping in deep, slipping leisurely back out, fucking you at a precise, tantalizing speed, that makes your blood run thin with desire. It was slow, and calculated, and driving you wantonly wild.

"Charlie." You hiss, white knuckling the basin of the sink, gritting your teeth. You push your hips back to supply yourself with more friction, and his hand collides ruthlessly with your ass. The thunderous smack resounding around the compressed little bathroom.

"I said—" He grunts, slamming into you with a full, painful thrust. "Scream."

You rock forward, belligerently plunging into the sink, cheek squishing into the mirror as he forcefully guides you into it and starts to pound into you from behind, drilling his cock into your core, sending your body plummeting into the mirror with a repetitive thud.

"Charlie!" You shrill, howling his name, voice laced with lust and thick with pleasure. Your body smacking into the mirror, cheek colliding into the reflective surface with each snap of his hips. His dick ransacking your cunt, absorbing your wetness, that faps around his massive girth.

"There's my good girl." He grumbles in his husky tone, shifting his hips and fucking up into you, chest swelling into your back as one of his hands escapes your body to flatten onto the wall. Precising the plucks of his dick as it sheathes and plunges into you hard enough to shake the entire airplane.

"I-I'm going to cum, Charlie." You whine, clawing at the dewy, now fogged up mirror for support, as he hissed in pleasure and continues to plow into you. 

"Cum on my cock, sweetheart."

Your toes curl, your stomach tingles, and your head is thrown back as shock waves of pleasure ripple through you. Your legs completely give out as your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, the only thing sustaining your body being Charlie, as he fucks you through your earth-shattering climax.

"F-fuck..." He stutters, as he hits his peak just moments after, pumping his hot seed deep within your core, hand colliding with yours on the wall, intertwining with your fingers as he fucked you through the aftermath.

You were both breathless. Meeting each other's stares of inclination in the hazy mirror that was cloudy with the spites of sex. Your face was flushed scarlet, sweat beading on your skin, drizzling down his in dense droplets.

A soft, timid knock shakes the door.

You both freeze, his cock still lodged within your core, as he caresses your hip and watches your reaction morph into one of pure terror. "Um, c-coming!" You shout shakily.

Knowing you'll have to confront the person with Charlie by your side, both of you heaving and stained with the blatancy of sex.

He eases out of you and tucks himself away all too fast. You unethically tug your panties back up, adjusting your skirt, exchanging one last passionate kiss with him before you both heedfully spill out of the bathroom.

A woman gawks at the two of you in horror as she stands, wide eyed, by the now free bathroom door. 

You wobble along in front of Charlie, bashfully limping through the aisle. Little did you know, that he was watching the cum ooze down your thighs, gleaming visibly under the planes fluorescent lights, as you scampered ahead of him.


End file.
